smoke fills the car
parked in the street
far from street lamps
the music is loud enough
their voices just audible
they begin to kiss
a sweet taste
a sweet smell
breath fogging glass
the music is loud enough
soon could be louder
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It's always getting late.
When I am not writing this is what I do.
"In the present we are always in memory." - Trish Keenan
It's always getting late.
Introduction
This blog is a virtual notebook of writing that I maintain as often as I can. Poems, stray lines, random observations, all co-exist here. Revisions occur as needed/deemed fit.
See/Hear
A Chronological Archive of Joy and Heartache most often referred to as LIFE
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2013
(348)
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August
(24)
- You can't run away from the world.
- casual hope
- a human expectation
- unthinkable loss
- simple chatter
- reading
- Street Light
- Blurring
- When I wake you're still a dream.
- Maisy
- Narcissus
- Myth & Fact
- They/We
- growing up
- A Constant Amnesia
- Shaping Space
- The Faded Colossus
- vast
- Body Images
- Interruption
- cycles
- I, the Vessel
- A Night in Fragments
- Dreams dissipate as eyes begin to blink through d...
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▼
August
(24)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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